


Late Night Drinking and Troubled Thinking

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Monster (Manga)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Background Het, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 06:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12475612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Eva is good at slipping out of bed. Her husband never notices.





	Late Night Drinking and Troubled Thinking

Eva is good at slipping out of bed. She has always been good—Kenzo never used to notice, even, when they slept together, and he slept lightly, always ready to run down to the hospital if there was an emergency, always ready to leave her. Werner, her newest husband, sleeps deeply. He has never noticed her insomnia, the way she wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back to sleep for hours. It’s better that he doesn’t. It’s better that he thinks she is normal.

Werner thinks she is a glamorous sort of woman: a little rich, a little fickle but firmly in his hand now that he has won her over. He thinks she is a whole hearted socialite, devoted to high society dinners and wearing the best dresses and eating the best food. He thinks she is…well, what she used to be once, what she hasn’t been for some time. He will say, if asked, that he knows his wife has a cynical edge, a hint of selfishness, and that in his opinion it only makes her smarter. He doesn’t know anything about her, except the illusion she projects, an illusion which lately is beginning to fade.

It’s all right. Werner isn’t really anything but an illusion either, the illusion of a rich and loving husband, prestigious and devoted to her. He is none of the above. Rich? Well, he isn’t poor, like Tenma. Loving and devoted? So far—but devoted to a spectral image of her, and not her in reality. So far she’s been keeping her drinking down, but lately more and more often she can’t sleep, more and more often she finds herself drinking. He will figure it out soon, and then he will be angry with her. He will say he deceived her, like the last husband before him. He will be right.

In a couple months he will leave her, unable to deal with his imperfect wife. She will get alimony.

Oh, but that makes it sound dreadfully deliberate, doesn’t it? No, she didn’t plan this out all that much. She didn’t marry him for his money—well, she did a little bit, but not really. She married him because she was bored, because she thought it would make her look less desperately lonely, because he was attractive, because he was interested in her and hey, maybe this time it would actually stick. On the day of her wedding the spectacle of it convinced her: yes, she loved him. Yes, she would stay this time. He was the best of her husbands to her that day, the best of her lovers…

But that feeling did not last. It never does.

Tonight she slips down to the kitchen. During the day she doesn’t go here. She makes the butler fetch her what she needs, food and drink for herself and her guests. He has been with her since before her last husband, and is loyal to her and not to Werner. She knows she ought to appreciate that, but honestly she finds him a little stifling. What on earth does he stick around for? Does he like watching train wrecks that much?

(Of course it’s for the money and the stability of a job. She’s not stupid, she’s just a little impatient. It’s late at night. If she could sleep she would.)

She gets down a bottle of wine. It’s good stuff. She wouldn’t give it to just any guest or eat it at just any dinner: too expensive. Her nighttime self, though, is more lavish than she would be during the day. Who cares what she eats, what she drinks? Memento mori. You need to drink the wine eventually or you’ll die before it’s drunk, so you might as well drink it now, while you’re thirsty, while you’re so, so thirsty…

She pours herself a glass and swirls it. Drink slowly. You ought to appreciate your addiction—then it looks more like a luxury. She closes her eyes and pictures herself at a fancy restaurant, the wine accompanied by steak. Kenzo chuckling sheepishly as he eats with her, a little on edge because he has no idea how to relax, a little worried about the price tag on the meal even though she knows his salary, knows he can afford it. Just relax, Kenzo. You shouldn’t worry too much about all these things, all these unnecessary things. If you could just go with the flow and do as I do, everything would be fine.

She opens her eyes and sighs, and gulps down a swallow faster than she intends to.

Last night she took down her old picture album and looked at the pictures of herself and Kenzo. She always does that when she’s feeling restless. Seeing his smiling face always hurts her but it relaxes her too, centers her. It serves as a sharp reminder that there was a time when not everything was so shallow, when she knew who she was and _was_ who she was, when everything was just perfectly right. She played a role then, but she played it by choice. And she hadn’t belonged to anyone back then, not even to Kenzo, only to her father, who had steadied her and guided her and taught her what to do.

Her father. She says she misses Kenzo. He is the only thing she will admit to missing, because he still exists out there somewhere, because he left her on purpose, because she’s lost so many men that having “one that got away” is only to be expected. Were she to admit to still mourning her father after all these years, she would look like an idiot.

Ah well. She finishes the glass. She looks like an idiot anyway. But Werner is in bed and the butler has gone home, and no one knows it except herself and whatever gods there may be out there to laugh at her.

Tonight, she does not look at the album. There is no point in it, and she is not drunk enough to feel maudlin. Tonight she paces the floor of the living room until her body is exhausted enough that she thinks she will be able to sleep. She returns to the bedroom. She slips back into bed.

Werner has not missed her. He is still sound asleep and very, very warm. She wraps her arms around his body and thinks about how he does not know about her night vigils, how he does not know her at all. How tired she is getting of playing the perfect wife for him. How soon she will start to nag at him, to show her true nature. If she shows him how nasty and ugly she really is she knows he won’t make a fuss when she tells him they’re splitting up.

It’s not that she wants to go back to Kenzo and her father and the good old days. She knows she can’t. Her father is dead, and without him nothing will ever be quite right. But she won’t stay with Werner much longer either. The bridge back to her old life is demolished, and even her old life itself would be nothing were she to attempt to return to it. But she has more bridges left to burn, and the restless fire in her veins is beginning to spark again, and she knows it will not stay quiet much longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts: "And there’s no coming back from the place that you came." Anything Monster.  
> My favorite Monster character is Eva Heinemann. Sadly I'm in a very mellow, kind of exhausted kind of mood, so you get no plot, only angst. Someday I will write her a happier fic. Someday.  
> (Secretly I ship Eva/Tenma, like, not even kidding.)


End file.
